


The Ache for Home

by Solemini (CyanHorne)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, But only a little, Carlos is a Night Vale native, Cecil is the hapless outsider, Drinking to Cope, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Slight Ableist Language, Slow Build, municipally sanctioned self-destruction is still self-destruction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanHorne/pseuds/Solemini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have a been a lot of new hosts since Leonard Burton died. But this one, Carlos knows, is different...</p><p>Snippets, glimpses, and scenes from a world where Carlos grew up in Night Vale and Cecil is a hapless newcomer who might be in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." - Maya Angelou

Carlos knows the moment he turns on the radio and hears  _that voice_  for the first time.

It’s a new host. There have been a lot of new hosts since Leonard Burton died. Arrogant upstarts with dreams of grandeur, naïve newcomers without a single clue, awkward interns putting on brave faces as they stumble over words…Night Vale has heard them all. All were, at best, placeholders. Temporary fixes for a permanent problem. At worst, they were tried and found lacking, and Carlos shudders to think what became of them.

He almost didn’t listen tonight. He’d thought to himself, when he’d first heard, that he couldn’t bear hearing one more hapless outsider tumble head-first into a web they not only can’t escape but cannot hope to understand.

Still, Carlos is, first and foremost, a scientist. His home town looks to him for answers and one does not find answers without first collecting data. So he tunes his radio to the nightly news and listens intently as the static gives way to a voice as smooth and cool as the void.

“Hello listeners. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cecil, and starting tonight I’ll be taking over your evening news report here on Night Vale Community Radio. I’ve just arrived in Night Vale, so I hope you won’t mind if it takes me a while to settle in and adjust to how things work around here. Still, this is such a beautiful town, and I look forward to meeting all of you in the coming weeks…”

And Carlos  _knows_.

He knows even before the first headline. He feels it, as all native Night Valens must feel it. It’s in the cadence of this voice, in its frequency, its timbre. It washes over their little desert town in soothing waves. Night Vale gives a great and silent sigh, then settles, content at last with its place in the cosmos.

Carlos slumps in his rolling chair, boneless with the release of a tension he hadn’t known that he’d been holding. He rolls back, laughing, bumps against a table and rattles a number of beakers in their stands. He laughs and laughs until it echoes through the empty lab. It is a laugh full of relief and thanksgiving.

At last, at long last …

Night Vale has found its Voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah, gotta be honest guys, I have no idea where I'm going with this. I've really wanted to see this AU and I've got a handful of scenes fluttering around my head, so I'm just going with it. If you have any ideas for prompts or scenes or a better title, feel free to drop me a line.
> 
> I also have a tumblr. Come find me at soleminisanction.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

“…Now, I’m still having some trouble decoding exactly what the weather meant, but through the my window here at the station it’s looking to be a clear night and beautiful evening here in Night Vale. I hope all of you out there have someone to share it with…or, at least, good memories of when you did. 

“Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

After a few seconds of dead air, the recording ends with a soft _click._ Cecil rewinds the tape, half bemused and half delighted. To think that any radio station in this day and age still uses cassettes with real tape instead of a digital archive. It’s quaint and endearing, and Cecil clings to it, because thinking too hard about any of the _other things_ he’s seen recently is too much for his brain to handle.

He knows that this is not a typical job. He knew that long before he arrived in this town, where blood oozes from his apartment walls and floating, hooded figures lurk on ever dark corner. He thinks, somehow, that he must have known ever since he saw that first Help Wanted ad in that first newspaper he’d picked up after his college trip to Europe.

The ad read, as they all would:

** WANTED: RADIO BROADCASTING PROFESSIONAL **

**Journalist and presenter required to host nightly radio news program, as no suitable candidate has arisen locally. One year prior experience in news broadcasting or ritual chanting preferred.  
** **Applicants contact Night Vale Community Radio. DO NOT ASK FOR STATION MANAGEMENT.**

Even now, Cecil could recite those words by heart, because they’d seemed to follow him for years. They popped up every few months, just as he’d started to forget them, drawing his eye to classified listings and job boards and once, he swore, turning up in his dreams. They never featured a phone number, or an e-mail address, or any other sort of contact information, and the one time Cecil tried to google ‘Night Vale’…

Well. He didn’t actually remember. He just knew that the information he needed was not there.

Still, he’d managed somehow. He had to have. He’s sitting here, at this desk – his desk – surrounded by broadcasting equipment and a vintage microphone and this recording of his first broadcast, the one that had gone live last night. For two straight hours now, he’s listened to his own voice reporting on shrieking post office horrors, an old woman’s visiting angels, and a dog park that no one is allowed to acknowledge.

These things should scare him. They should have scared him last night. But they didn’t then and they don’t now and Cecil doesn’t quite know why.

A knock on the studio door interrupts his thoughts. Adele, one of the interns, pops her head into the booth. She smiles so much brighter now than she did last night. All of the interns do, they seem so much more relaxed. Last night, they’d all been so nervous they could barely look Cecil in the eye, and once he’d gone on-air two began openly sobbing, not in sorrow but in relief. Now, it’s like none of that happened. They’re all so bright and eager to please. It’s infectious.

“Carlos the Scientist to see you, Mister Palmer,” says Adele, practically bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

Cecil blinks, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “Carlos…?”

“The Scientist, yes. He’s a local fixture, does a ton of research around town. When trouble pops up he’s almost always the first to find answers, and he knows all kinds of interesting scientific facts so he makes a great resource for stories. But I can always tell him to come back if you’re busy.”

“No, no, it’s all right. Please, bring him in.”

The girl skips off. Once she’s far enough away, Cecil allows himself an unprofessional fist-pump. Two days on the job and he’s already attracted a local celebrity! Or at least an academic fixture. He must not be doing too bad a job after all. Maybe he can even score an interview to fill in tonight’s editorial.

When the door opens again he tries to turn his chair and stand in one motion to make a good, confident first impression. Instead, he finds himself gaping in shock, trips over his own feet, and nearly face-plants into the floor.

Standing at his studio door is the most handsome man that Cecil has ever seen.

Just… _wow_. That skin, that jaw, that hair! Every one of Cecil’s cliché Latin Lover fantasies poured into a lab coat and flannel. He could pose for romance novels. He could be in porn.

And he’s currently crouched over Cecil, looking mildly panicked…no. Not panicked. Concerned.

“Oh, oh jeez,” he’s saying, in a voice like smooth caramel despite the fact that it’s spoken partially through his nose. “That looked like it hurt. Are you okay?”

Cecil, lying sprawled on the floor like a discarded rug, realizes belatedly that he’s just staring up at this god in a lab coat, being an utter buffoon. Face hot and hands flailing, he scrambles to his feet, frantically brushing dirt of his slacks and vest.

“Fine!” he squeaks. “I’m, I’m fine, oh gosh, I’m…” He swallows, dragging his voice down from the two octaves it’d leapt in panic. Painfully aware of those staring, beautiful brown eyes, Cecil shakes his hand clean and thrusts it out. “Palmer. I’m, ah. Cecil Palmer.”

His visitor smiles, revealing teeth like a military cemetery. He takes Cecil’s hand. “I know. I caught your show last night. I’m Carlos.”

“Carlos, the Scientist?”

Cecil curses the words before they’re even out of his mouth. Of course he’s got a better name. Such a stupid thing to say!

But Carlos – perfect Carlos – only chuckles with good humor and no malice. “That’s what they call me.” His warm, strong grip melts Cecil’s heart into a quivering puddle. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important…”

“Oh no, not all.”

“I just came by to, well, say hello. And offer my services, in case you need help figuring things out around here.” Carlos runs a hand through that perfect black hair and trails his beautiful eyes around the dingy, undecorated studio. “It’s always confusing for newcomers, right? So, I’m more than happy to help if you have any questions.”

Cecil has a million questions. He does not ask, “ _Are you single?”_ He does not ask, _“Are you gay?”_ He does not beg, _“Please be gay, or at least willing to give men a brief try, because if I could only have one perfect night with you I think that I could die happy you perfect, perfect man…”_

Instead, he fiddles nervously with his tie and tries to act nonchalant as he says, “I take it you’ve lived here a while, then?”

“All my life. Night Vale born and raised.” Carlos beams, so very proud of his hometown. It makes Cecil hope that he could learn to love this strange place nearly as much. “Grad school and the doctorate took me outside for a while, but even the ever-expanding void and the fragility of temporal mechanics couldn’t keep me away for good. There’s nowhere in the world as scientifically interesting as good old Night Vale. Did you know that we’ve recorded over two thousand earthquakes in this general area over the last eight years? Nearly all of them rank between seven-point-five and eight-point-six on the Richter scale, and the ones that don’t are even stronger, but not a single Night Vale resident has ever reported feeling the slightest tremor of seismic activity. The implications of those results are absolutely fascinating. It’s almost as exciting as the very concept of existence. You know what I mean?”

Cecil doesn’t, but he nods anyway. Anything to keep that beautiful voice so happy and light and full of excitement.

But Carlos is looking at him now, waiting for a response. Cecil wracks his barely-functioning brain for an answer that will prove he’s smart and engaged and civic-minded, especially when it comes to science.

What comes out is a single, breathless, “Neat!”

Uuuuuuuuuuuugh.

Cecil barely resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. Oh, if only the floor would open up and swallow him right now.

Carlos chuckles again, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s uncomfortable. Cecil has made him uncomfortable. Stupid, stupid! Stupid brain, ruining everything.

“Anyway,” says Carlos, his eyes trailing to the clock hung in the hallway outside. “I should let you finish work on your show. That whole town’s looking forward to it.”

Cecil doubts that. It’s community radio news and he is a nobody. It’s a miracle that anyone, let alone Carlos, heard him last night at all.

“My lab number should still be on the cork-board in the break room, so if you ever need anything – scientifically speaking – feel free to give me a call.”

Cecil has to remind himself that this is not a personal invitation. Carlos’s lab number is for professional calls. He is a professional. That doesn’t stop his stomach from fluttering with excitement. “Yes! Ah, yes, of course. I’ll be sure to do that. Thank you, so much, for taking the time to come by…”

Carlos pauses out of the blue and Cecil nearly swallows his own tongue. The scientist’s eyes have grown thoughtful and distant. He is staring at Cecil, but he is also staring through Cecil, like the announcer is a puzzle he has yet to unravel. Or perhaps, it’s more like Carlos has something to tell him, but does not yet have a way to put it into words.

A second later, the expression is gone. Cecil almost wonders if he imagined it, but then a warm hand lands on his shoulder and he stops thinking altogether.

“Welcome to Night Vale, Cecil,” says Carlos, soft and kind. He smiles, and everything about him is perfect.

Cecil falls in love instantly.

* * *

He tells no one.

That is, he tells no one about falling in love. He tells everyone – the vague, amorphous ‘everyone’ of his radio audience – about Carlos’s visit that very night on the show. Everything seems to come so smoothly when Cecil is behind the mike, and he easily works his ramblings about earthquakes and seismology and the excitement of existence in between the reports of shrieking sunsets and some racist, insensitive asshole.

But he doesn’t breathe a word of love, even though he longs to wax poetic about Carlos’s beautiful hair and strong hands. Cecil doesn’t dare, because he has seen how small towns treat _his kind_ of people, heard all the worst horror stories and dire warnings. Night Vale is not exactly tiny, but it is close-knit and isolated and so strict about so many things. If citizens can be carted off for ‘voting incorrectly,’ Cecil doesn’t want to imagine what they’d do about a fag on the radio.

So he tells no one, copies Carlos’s number into his phone, and keeps the warm, newborn love close to his heart.

And later, at the end of the week, when Intern Adele is devoured by venomous squirrels, Cecil holds tight to the memory of Carlos’s smile as he spoke of Night Vale with adoration and pride. He can learn to love this place too. He knows he can. He simply has to try.


	3. Station Management, Pt. 1

“Heya, outsider!”

Cecil jerks like a frightened deer and drops his keys in the midst of locking his front door. The welcome mat snarls, forcing Cecil onto one knee to retrieve his belongings before they can be devoured.

The man who’d snuck up on him – a balding stranger in a track suit – laughs awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. “Whoops. Sorry. Forgot how jumpy you interlopers can get. You oughta switch to decaf, get some of that extra energy out of your system. You know?”

Cecil pins the welcome mat under his foot and glares. He collects his things, rises smoothly, and straightens his rumbled vest. “Do I know you?”

“Guess not. The name’s Steve Carlsberg.” Grinning like a loon, Steve thrusts his meaty hand out for a shake. Cecil recoils from its sweat-soaked palm. “Good to finally meet’cha. Though I gotta say, from how you sound on the radio, I didn’t expect you to be quite so…scrawny.”

Cecil scowls, turning a cold shoulder and leaving Steve’s handshake hanging. He is _not_ scrawny. He has never been scrawny. Anyone would look scrawny next to a beer-belly like Steve Carlsberg’s. He doesn’t think that this man is _trying_ to insult him, but every other word out of the balding annoyance’s mouth rubs him the wrong way.

Outsider, interloper, _scrawny_ …who does this jerk think he is?

Brightly oblivious to all dark moods and death glares, Steve Carlsberg retracts his hand without so much as the flicker of a frown. “Anyway, Ceese – can I call you Ceese?”

“ _No._ ”

“I’ve been listening to your show the last couple of weeks. Great stuff, lots of really in-depth reporting. It really makes me think, you know? Like, a few day back, you remember, you said something like, ‘Now listeners…’”

Cecil does a double-take, because Steve Carlsberg has – completely without warning – squared his round shoulders, lifted his head into a swagger, and dropped his voice a full octave to…no…

Is that supposed to be _Cecil_?

“‘I know that the Almighty Glow Cloud just passed us by, dropping dead animals all over our little town, and that none of us really remember what happened while it was here, but when you think about it, isn’t that what life is really about? These things come and go and pass you by, and what matters after they’ve all gone on is that we are all still here, Night Vale. We are home.’

“I just thought that was really cool of you, calling Night Vale your home and all.”

_I do not sound like that!_ The complaint dies of shock on Cecil’s tongue, leaving him mute and gaping. His keys dangle limp, only saved from the mat’s hunger by the death-grip of the door lock.

“See, we haven’t had a steady radio host here for, like, _ever_. You’ve lasted longer than anybody. And my old buddy Carlos seems to think you’re gonna stick around for a while. He’s usually right about that sort of thing so –”

“Wait. _”_ Raggedly, Cecil regains his voice and thrusts up a hand to cut Steve off in mid-ramble. “Wait, just… _wait._ You know Carlos? You, Steve Carlsberg, you’re friends with Carlos?”

“Oh yeah!” If anything, Steve manages to smile even brighter than before. “We go way back. He’s the only reason I passed freshman chem. Plus, we made an awesome team that time we had to defend out bus route from those winged half-bat creatures that came out of the middle school. Those were the days, man.”

Shaking his head, Cecil finally manages to lock his front door. He wants to make a run for it, to demand that this weird, rambling idiot with no sense of personal space never come near him again. But he can’t. If it got back to Carlos that Cecil was rude to his oldest friend…

He swallows his complaints and gives the welcome mat a farewell scruff before heading for the stairs. Steve Carlsberg doesn’t get the hint, falling into step a mere inch behind the radio host like a puppy eager for scraps.

“Anyhow, since it seems like you’re not gonna run screaming into the Sand Wastes anytime soon, I figured I ought to stop by and warn you about all the weird stuff that goes on at the radio station.”

“If this is about the changing floor plan and blood sacrifices, I already know.” Suddenly self-conscious, Cecil rubs the hidden nicks along the back of one arm that prove just how familiar he is with the station’s quirks.

Steve laughs. “Nah, that’s standard stuff. Good security and all that. What I’m talking about is the reason for all that extra security: the top secret government mind control project they’re operating out of the basement!”

Cecil scoffs. If he’s learned one thing after three months in Night Vale, it’s that none of the government’s secrets are actually secret here. Even the supposedly-undercover police officers assigned to follow him to and from the station introduced themselves on the first day with individually printed business cards tucked into his shoes.

“I’m serious!” insists Steve as they tromp down the stairs. “The government’s been using the station to test hypnotic broadcasts and subliminal messaging techniques for years now. Why else do you think they make you read all that rambling nonsense in during the ads?”

“To sell their products, obviously.” Sure, Cecil doesn’t always understand what the ads were trying to say, but that was true even at his last three jobs in ‘normal’ country, and common sense dictates that you have to vary the technique to appeal to regional markets.

At last, they reach the bottom step and emerge from the stairwell into the parking lot, where Cecil’s car is waiting. Escape is in sight. So close now. So close.

He stops at the edge of the sidewalk and turns back, trying one last time for a firm but tactful goodbye. “Look, Mister Carlsberg. I appreciate the concern, but I think I know what’s going on in my own radio station.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve leans in conspiratorially until their noses almost touch. Cecil can smell the eggs on Steve’s breath and barely holds in a retch. “Have you ever seen what goes on behind Station Management’s door?”

Cecil stops talking.

Unwittingly, Steve Carlsberg has planted a horrible, damning thought in the radio host’s mind. After three months, Cecil likes to think that he’s gotten used to how things work in Night Vale. He knows not to acknowledge the Hooded Figures, works his mandatory Big Rico’s slice into each weekly schedule, and made it through his goodbyes to Intern Adele – and Danny, and Chad – without anyone noticing the break in his voice. Through every chaotic, confusing, and potentially fatal day, he survives knowing that, eventually, he will sit behind the microphone again and everything will make sense.

But even then, at the moment when everything seems most clear, he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know Station Management. He doesn’t have even the slightest idea of who or what he’s working for.

A deep-seated feeling of _wrong_ latches onto him like a lamprey. Steve Carlsberg – still all up in Cecil’s space – smirks triumphant at his stricken expression and starts rambling about government conspiracies and hidden mind-control equipment and secret testing sites for psychic powers.

Cecil tunes him out, his mind too busy spiraling over and over. Surely, he must know something. He’s not a complete idiot, he must have checked who the station’s owners were before he signed his contract. He can almost feel the pen in his hand, but the memory escapes him, like a fleeting dream.

He…He _had_ been interviewed for this position, hadn’t he?

The confusion stays with him even as he finally breaks away, offering Steve a mumbled excuse before climbing behind the wheel. Steve Carlsberg shrugs like he’s used to being blown off and continues blithely on his way, the tin-foil behind his ears glinting in the desert sun.

Cecil watches him leave, then puts the car into gear and pulls into the dusty desert streets. He grips the wheel until his fingers ache, trying to put the blasted conversation out of his mind.

Too late. The doubt remains.

* * *

“Listeners…I wonder if you might help me with something.

“Here at the radio station, it seems that it’s contract negotiation season with the Station Management. Now, of course, I only signed on a few months ago, so I haven’t had to dive into that particular minefield just yet. But in observing the struggles of my co-workers, I can’t imagine that it’s easy to negotiate anything when you’re never allowed to see what you’re negotiating with.

“You see, Station Management stays in their office at all times, only communicating with us through sealed envelopes spat out from under the door like a sunflower seed through teeth. Then, in order to respond, you just kind of shout at the closed door and hope that Management hears. Most of my fellow employees have been at this all day. In fact, they’re all so busy trying to make their voices heard that it’s just me and Intern Jerry here in the booth today.

“I mention all this, listeners, because I wonder if any of you out there might know something about Station Management. Who they are. What they’re like. What they are, what their true nature is. All that anyone here ever seems to have seen is vague shadows beyond frosted glass, those of large shapes and strange, flailing tendrils. Architecturally speaking, the apparent size of Management’s office does not physically make sense given the size of the building, but it’s hard to say really, as no one has ever seen the actual office. And that…well. That makes me wonder.

“So if any of you out there have ever seen Station Management, or know someone who has, please, give us a call and…

“Hmm.

“Listeners, it seems I may have said too much. Intern Jerry is waving at me, frantically. He’s making a rather violent slashing motion across his throat. And I can see down the hall that an envelope just came flying out from under the door. It does not appear to be addressed to any of the crowd. It…yes, apparently, this one is addressed to me.

“I’ve never gotten one of these before…

…

“Oh.

“Oh my.

“Let’s go to the seven-day outlook.”

* * *

 

Carlos frowns, tilting back his safety goggles and taking his portable radio off the windowsill. The broken book on his lab-table snaps at him, its pages oozing oily black. He pins it with his elbow, ignores the smell of canned meat, and ups the volume on today’s news.

The usual reports and announcements continue, but now Cecil’s voice holds the hint of a strain. Is it…uncertainty? Anticipation? Fear? Carlos can’t say. He’s never been good at reading social cues, even in person, and with remote vocal interaction as his only data point it’s nearly impossible.

Still, perhaps there’s a way for him to help. He is a scientist, after all. If there’s one thing he understands it’s the desire for knowledge.

“Hey, Rochelle?”

His teammate glances up from her logbook with an acknowledging hum.

“Dr. Quagmire ran a multi-planer spectral analysis battery on Station Management back in the 90s. Can you pull the file for me?”

Rochelle blinks. “Yeah, sure. Just a sec.”

Muttering a quick thanks, Carlos pulls his safety goggles back down and leans in to collect a sample of the book’s ooze. He’d wanted that to be the end of it, but he can already feel the eyes of his fellow scientists on his back.

Dave, one of the techs, is the first to speak up. “You’re going to call in?”

Carlos shrugs, moving the ooze sample from spatula to petri dish. “Cecil asked for information. We have it.”

“Yeah, but...c’mon. He’s not going to understand that file.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do. He’s not a scientist. He’s not even from here. He’ll be lucky if he can even read those charts.”

Carlos glares. Dave stops chuckling and backs off, his palms raised in silent surrender.

Cecil’s voice suddenly cuts across the lab, higher-pitched than they’ve heard before and openly trembling.

“And now, an editorial: I fear, dear listeners, that I have made a terrible mistake.”

The lab goes silent, save for the snap of those specimens not pinned down.

“It seems that, ah, Station Management was not at all pleased by my discussion of their physical attributes. They are threatening to shut down my show. Or, possibly…my _life._ ”

Carlos drops his ooze sample.

“Their wording was a little ambiguous.”

The science team draws a collective breath, decades-old studies and broken books forgotten. Their eyes dart to one another in panic before settling on Carlos, their leader. Said leader stares at the radio, breathless and unmoving.

They wouldn’t dare.

Of all the entities in Night Vale, Station Management must understand Cecil’s value.  After so many years spent searching for a Voice with the correct resonance, surely they wouldn’t dare harm their best and only candidate…

Through the radio comes a shriek, like live electrical wires being shredded lengthwise while still attached to speakers. Cecil gasps in strangled horror. The broadcast smash-cuts into a pre-recorded ad.

Abandoning his station, Carlos sprints out of the lab, the rest of the team at his heels. With each pounding footstep, he prays to the imperfect heavens that they make to the station before it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little adventure was supposed to be one chapter. But then Steve got involved, and the word count increased, and the whole thing spiraled out of control; so now it's two chapters. Hooray. The next one will, hopefully, not take me two weeks.   
> Cecil's broadcast adapted from "Episode 3 -- Station Management."
> 
> **EDIT:** If you somehow caught this in the first 15 minutes after it was up, please know that I added a third scene to the end of this chapter. I kept going back and forth on whether to include it, decided not to, and then immediately changed my mind. Sorry. I swear, I usually have my shit together better than this. OTL


	4. Station Management, Pt. 2

“Hello, radio audience." 

Another of those horrible, terrible shrieks echoes through the station, shaking the gray studio walls. An undignified noise squeaks involuntarily from Cecil’s throat. He clutches the mic closer.

“I come to you live from under my desk, where Intern Jerry and I have dragged the microphone and are currently hiding, in the fetal position.”

There’s not really enough room for two people down here, even though Jerry’s a fairly skinny kid. They’re pressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, each with a hand on the microphone to keep it steady. Cecil doesn’t even know why he’s still talking. That thing is out there looking for them, to keep working is insane. But he can’t stop.

“If anyone can still hear this broadcast, please disregard my previous requests. Do not call into the station. Instead…send help. Station Management has opened its door and is now roaming the building. The rest of our staff has, apparently, evacuated, leaving Jerry and I here alone. We can only hope that Management is not listening to what is going out right now or I might have sealed our fate…”

Another shriek. The sound-booth windows buzz in their frames, threatening to burst and shatter into glass rain. Intern Jerry stares wide-eyed at Cecil, his free hand poised over the section of soundboard he’s dragged with them under the desk. He tightens his support of Cecil’s fingers on the mic and nods towards the sealed door.

“I think…I think we’re going to make a break for the front door.”

Cecil curses himself in his mind. Shut up, shut up, why can’t he shut up?

“I-If you don’t hear from me again, please know that this...these past few weeks...have been a true pleasure, Night Vale. Perhaps the truest I have ever known.”

Sign off. Just sign off and they can get out of here. Sign off.

“Good night, sweet listeners…and goodbye.”

Spell broken at last, Cecil drops the mic. Jerry cuts the broadcast and catches the equipment before it can hit the ground. He breathes a relieved sigh, shoulders shaking, and sets the microphone aside.

The station is dark now, save for the pulsing red of emergency lights. Outside in the hall, Station Management roams their domain, all clicking footsteps and the hiss of releasing steam. Its shadows are not directly outside their door, but remain close enough that darkness dances on the studio floor.

Quickly, quietly, they slip to the door, each taking a side with their backs pressed to the wall. Intern Jerry takes the knob first but doesn’t open it, his gaze locked on Management’s shadow. It shifts and moves but never gets further away. They are lurking. They are waiting.

Jerry bites his lip and looks to Cecil with determination in his eyes.  “I’ll go first. You run while I’ve got them distracted.”

For a moment, Cecil can only stare in horror. Jerry -- Jerry Hartman, that’s his full name -- is only a college student at most. Sophomore, he thinks, or perhaps in the summer between freshman and sophomore year.  He’s not old enough to drink, barely old enough to smoke, and certainly not old enough to risk his life for some screw-up of a host who’s old enough to know better.

“I can’t let you do that.” Cecil swallows, his throat tightening at the thought of what a monster like Station Management could and will do to them. To him. “If anyone goes out there, it should be me.”

Jerry shakes his head and, for a split second, Cecil wants to strangle the boy himself. Stupid, arrogant children, why do they do this? They think they’re immortal, invulnerable because of youth, but surely Jerry must have seen what happened to Adele, and Chad, and all the rest. How can he even think of throwing himself into danger after all that?

“Jerry, listen to me. This is my fault--”

“Shhh!”

The walls behind them shake with Management’s grating, staticy howl. Cecil claps a hand over his mouth, the only way he knows for sure to shut himself up. He holds his breath as those clicking semi-metallic footsteps skitter across the door and then past it, back down the hall.

Jerry smiles at him in the red light, comforting and calm. Resigned.

“It’ll be okay, Mister Palmer. You just get out of here safe.”

With no more warning, Jerry darts through the door and slams it behind him as loud as he can. Station Management roars, shaking the entire station to its foundation and sending Cecil to the floor. He hears Management tear down the hall like a freight train, hears their unseen nails rip the sheeting off the walls. Hears footsteps, human footsteps, racing into the labyrinth. Hears a distant, echoing and strangled scream.

Cecil sobs, both hands now clamped over his jaw. His bones ache and his entire body feels gelatinous, useless. But he can’t just sit here. His time has been bought and cannot be wasted.

He drags himself up by the doorknob and cracks open the studio door. He peers into the hall and sees nothing, hears nothing. He runs.

He is within sight of the station door when Management spots him. Its howl sends him stumbling, arms flailing, but even when he falls Cecil doesn’t stop. He scrambles on all fours and nearly collapses against the cold, veiny stone doors. His hand grasps the blade set into the wall for exactly this purpose, slicing open his palm. It hurts like burning hell which is why the interns always told him to use the back of his arm, and that’s the last ridiculous thought he manages before splashing the doors with blood and tumbling through them into the cold desert night.

The bloodstone doors slam shut closed right in Management’s face – assuming, of course, that it has a face. It cuts of their roar as suddenly as a broken tape. Cecil feels rather like he’s just been flung off the deck of a storm-locked boat and onto the solid ground of a clear night’s beach. He feels no fury, hears no cries. There is only stars and a thin moon and the endless void.

He falls back against the sealed stations doors, sinks to the dust-strewn earth, and stays there for what feels like a very long time.

* * *

 

Carlos and his team arrive to find the radio station emptied of staff. The surrounding block has been evacuated. Even the vagrants have abandoned their usual hovels and lean-tos. The streetlights have all blown out, scattering the sidewalk with glass, and the station windows all pulse with a steady, dark radiance. Only the blinking red light atop the broadcast tower remains constant, flickering in and out as it, apparently, has for centuries.

Cecil’s car, instantly recognizable by its out-of-state plates, is the only vehicle that remains in the parking lot. Dead air hisses from the radio in their research van. The combination would be enough to give Carlos a heart attack, if it wasn’t for the limp figure he spies slumped against the station door.

Carlos breathes a sigh of relief and immediately, slips from mild panic into Scientific Business mode. Station Management is an entity of Night Vale, on par with the Hooded Figures or the City Council. The radio station usually keeps them contained, but any chance at a breach must be neutralized, for the safety of the town.

“Sheriff’s Secret Police should be here any moment,” Carlos says to the team in general, gesturing around them with sweeping arms. “Help them rope off the area. Keep everyone else back for their own safety. We’re going to need extra bloodstones, some black urchins to sacrifice, and make sure the chrono-seismic monitoring equipment is properly calibrated. Okay?”

“You got it boss.” Rochelle salutes, the team immediately dispersing to their various tasks.

Carlos straightens his lab coat, examines the darkness for any unacknowledged dangers and, finding nothing, jogs across the parking lot to reach the station doors. Cecil hasn’t moved since the scientists arrived. He leans against the bloodstone doors like a rag doll and stares up at the stars and the void.

Carlos kneels beside him, reaches for one shoulder, and thinks better before making contact. He clears his throat. “Cecil?”

The radio host blinks, just once, and languidly rolls his head so his eyes turn towards Carlos. His breathing is short and he appears to be sweating, but his eyes are focused rather than glassy and he seems to have control over his movements. Carlos rules out circulatory shock but does not yet dismiss an acute stress reaction.

“Cecil,” he says softly, keeping his hands where the radio hose can see them. “We need to get you away from the door. Do you need me to help you walk?”

Cecil takes a moment to process the question, then shakes his head. He stumbles to his feet, unfolding like a beach chair on the shores of night, and leans heavily on the bloodstone door until his balance returns.

Carlos keeps a careful distance, close enough to step in if he’s needed but far enough that the radio host won’t feel hounded or trapped. He’s about 95 percent certain that Cecil doesn’t like him. They’ve spoken a few times since their introduction, usually over the phone or at press conferences about the latest scientific discoveries, and each on each occasion Cecil has avoided looking Carlos in the eye. Within a few minutes of conversation, he clams up and starts fidgeting or stuttering. Eventually, he finds an excuse and breaks away.

Carlos doesn’t take it personally. It must be overwhelming, moving to a new place with all these new people to get used to. He supposes that he, in his excitement over the Voice phenomenon, must have come on too strong in their first meeting. So for now he’ll keep his distance, especially after everything Cecil has just been through.

Without touching, he leads Cecil a safe distance across the parking lot, pass the half-established police barrier to his lonely, abandoned car.

“Are you hurt?” Carlos asks, already giving a visual once-over as he helps Cecil settle on the hood.

Cecil shakes his head again.

“Let me check you over real quick, just in case.” Carlos digs into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a small black box covered in screens, buttons, and flashing lights. “No touching required. It’s only a simple, scientific diagnostic.”

Cecil doesn’t object, so Carlos fires up his machine and runs a couple of basic first-aid scans, checking everything from relative aura strength to physical stress. He notes the nasty cut on Cecil’s left hand and is about to suggest a bandage when the radio host finally speaks, his voice reedy and dry.  “He’s still in there…”

Carlos glances up, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Jerry,” Cecil elaborates, sounding a bit desperate. “The intern. The board operator. He’s still in there. He’s just a kid.”

Ah. Carlos nods in grave understanding. He’s seen the Hartmans around town, mostly in the Ralph’s and at the prep for this year’s lottery drawing. They’d been quite proud when Jerry snagged the internship. Proud and terrified.

“He did a good job,” he says, sending the last of his diagnostic data off for processing. “He took a lot of pride in his work. He’ll be missed, I’m sure.”

It ought to be comforting, but Cecil only stares like Carlos just sprouted grisly bat wings and a set of blood-thirsty fangs. His breathing grows more harried and Carlos fears for a moment that he’s about to start hyperventilating.

“What did it do to him?”

Carlos winces. “They,” he corrects. Station Management is a sentient being. It’s only polite to acknowledge their pronoun preferences. “I don’t have enough data to say for sure, but if I had to form an incomplete hypothesis… I’d say that, given historical president, it was most likely a form of corporeal absorption.”

Cecil makes a pained noise, like a kitten who’s been rolled over on by their mother. His long fingers curl into fists and his head droops, chin pressed into the curve between his collar bones.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he mutters, staring at his scraped and blood-stained shoes. “I just wanted to know.”

Carlos hums sympathetically, trading his diagnostic machine for a large bandage. He certainly understands where Cecil is coming from. Knowledge is not an easy desire to sate in Night Vale. So much is hidden and so much must be sacrificed to secure even a basic comprehension. And so often, the cost of knowledge is not revealed until it is too late to say no. It would discourage anyone. It discouraged him, as a young man, before his mentor showed him how to make the best of he’s been given.

He would like to say that, to encourage Cecil to not give up his quest for understanding in spite of the cost. But Carlos has never been good with words, so he simply secures the bandage over Cecil’s wounded palm and allows his hand to linger for a bit longer than is needed.

He breaks away. “I need to help secure the area. I’ll get one of the others to take you home.”

“No.” Cecil shakes his head. Half-way through the motion, he seems to forget why he was doing it and stops, only to start back up again. “You don’t need to. I can get back just fine.”

“Cecil, you’re in shock. You need someone with you, to make sure you're safe.”

“I’m fine. Besides, I need to get something on the way back.”

Carlos wants to object again, but stops himself. Cecil may be new here, and he may be the Voice, but he’s also a grown man with his own life and his own priorities. Carlos has no right to baby him, and doing so is just going to make the interaction between them more awkward.

“All right, then. If you’re sure.” He hovers around, awkward as a cow on roller skates, until Cecil is secure behind the wheel with seatbelt and all. He forces a smile and holds up one hand in a stiff farewell wave. “Good night, Cecil.”

“…good night.”

The door slams closed and the engine revs. Carlos stands back, hands in his lab coat pocket, and watches until the red taillights disappear into the still desert night. He tells himself that everything is all right now. Everything is as it should be. And yet, he can’t ignore the gut instinct that tells him that there are still things out there to be fixed and put right.

It’s times like this that he wishes his gut instincts were usually wrong.


	5. Drink to Forget

No one in Night Vale hears from Cecil again for three days. 

Carlos – preoccupied with helping the Secret Police to finally appease Station Management – doesn’t learn anything about this until late on the third evening, while he’s packing up the mobile lab equipment. He’s hopped up on caffeine and working alone, having sent his team home for the night. His mind whirs around the hypothetical applications of their collected data right up until the moment that Old Woman Josie catches his arm with her cane.

She is accompanied, as always, by an impossibly tall winged figure that hums with dark light and shields her from the setting sun. Carlos makes a point to not look at the definitely-not-an-angel and instead blinks down at Josie, pleasantly surprised as usual by her sudden appearance.

“Haven’t seen much of the radio boy lately,” she says, her voice gravelly with age and the throat-spider infection that tragically ended her opera career.

Carlos starts to explain that, of course, she wouldn’t _see_ Cecil, because radio is a purely auditory medium, and anyway the station has been off the air for three days…but then her meaning sinks in. He mulls over the implications, settles on a reaction of cautious optimism, and shrugs politely to indicate the same.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Josie. He had a close call. You know what that does to people.”

Josie huffs and tugs her cane off him perhaps a bit more forcefully than was needed. She folds her hands over its silver top and stares at Carlos without blinking. “Poor boy doesn’t know what he’s got going,” she says firmly. “He needs someone to explain.”

Her companion nods in sage agreement. Its head makes a faint ringing noise when it does.

They leave Carlos with a tin of corn muffins and the resolute feeling that yes, it is about time that someone told Cecil what he’s agreed to by taking this job. After all, the last three months have provided more than enough data to prove Carlos’s theory. He stops by the lab first to collect that information along with a clean lab-coat, then heads straight to Cecil’s apartment.

He’s barely arrived before the welcome mat starts to gnaw on his shoes, indicating that no one has passed over it in at least two days. Upon closer examination, Carlos finds Cecil’s door to be strangely scarred, as though the wood around the deadbolt has been shattered and re-attached. It might be an old wound, patched by the last tenant, but it still makes his stomach squirm with nerves.

He grinds a corn muffin into the mat and knocks on the door.

Five minutes pass without answer. 

He knocks again. 

Nothing. 

He clears his throat.

“Cecil? It’s, ah. It’s Carlos. I’m not here for personal reasons.” He always says that with the hope that it will put the radio host more at ease. A professional relationship has more guidelines than a personal one and is therefore less treacherous to navigate. “I’ve got something important that I need to talk with you about. Can you open the door?”

He bounces on his heels, earning a purr from the satisfied welcome mat. He holds his data and its neat manila folder up so that Cecil can clearly see it if he looks through the peep hole. Data is both exciting and comforting and Carlos wants Cecil to feel the same way.

Before the new silence can stretch as long as the old, he hears a dead bolt rattling in the door. It’s followed by a chain unhooked with clumsy hands. Then, the door opens to reveal Cecil.

He’s dead, stinking drunk. Literally – Carlos can smell the booze on his breath and in his sweat. He’s still wearing the same shirt from his brush with Management, but the vest and tie are long gone, as are the top three buttons. His glasses – their lenses smeared with fingerprints – slide haphazardly up and down his nose.

He wavers unsteadily, props his shoulder again the doorframe, and smiles a watery, dumb puppy-dog smile. “Hello, Carlosh.”

“Uh.” Carlos’s grip on his research grows a bit tighter. Even on his days off, when he’s shopping the Ralph’s or eating at Big Rico’s, Cecil is fastidious with his appearance. It’s his one way of exerting control over an otherwise chaotic and unstable existence. So to see him so disheveled, even in his own home, is unnerving. “…Hi?”

Cecil widens his smile and rocks his shoulders like a child daring you to guess what’s hidden behind his back. “You said you had something important to tell me?”

“Yeah…Yeah, I do. It’s _really_ important, but now I think this might not be the best time.”

Cecil’s eyes slide out of focus. His rocking stills. He stares blurrily into Carlos’s eyes without really seeing him, then pushes away from the door and shakes himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“‘M sorry, where are my manners? You should come in. Don’t mind the mess.”

He pushes the door all the way open and stumbles back into the gloom of his apartment. Carlos scruff the welcome mat one last time and trails after his drunk host, making sure to lock the door behind them.

He peers around the modest one-bedroom and suppresses a wince. Glass bottles litter the living room floor, all their hard liquor drained to the last drop. Another half-dozen vials in various states of consumption lurk on the coffee table, alongside a mismatched collection of glasses. One broken tumbler lies by the wall, apparently smashed there in a moment of rage. A few shards from its destruction still glimmer on the hardwood and rug.

Cecil stumbles through the mess, taking no notice of the obvious danger to his bare feet. He sinks onto the couch, hunkers down over his knees, a pours himself a fresh glass.

“‘Drink to forget,’” he says, swirling the amber liquid in its high ball. “That’s what they told me. Drink. To. Forget.”

He downs the glass, his throat rolling with each long sip. Carlos places his research and the corn muffins on the breakfast table, settling into an armchair to Cecil’s left-hand side. The data from his previous encounters with friends and co-workers on their nights of municipally-mandated wallowing indicate that he should lend a friendly ear and maybe some advice. It is not his forte, but when he tries to think of someone else to call he draws a blank. Cecil is an outsider. He hasn’t been in Night Vale long enough to make friends.

The journalist finishes his drink and stares into the empty glass as though he cannot comprehend its limitations. He sighs. “It’s not working. I keep drinking and drinking, but it won’t go away. I can’t forget anything.”

Carlos chuckles softly. “I’m not surprised. I’m afraid that the method of City Council’s advice has never been particularly scientific.”

He takes the glass out of Cecil’s limp fingers and puts it back on the table before it can suffer a fate similar to the one by the wall. Cecil watches him, his eyes sliding in and out of focus but always locked on Carlos’s face. Carlos rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and fishes around for something better to continue their conversation.

“Ah, I should also tell you…Station Management’s calmed down now. You should be good to return to work starting tomorrow morning.”

Cecil shudders. He curls in on himself, pulling his feet onto the couch. “I’m not going back to work.”

“Well sure, you need to sober up first.”

“I’m not going back there. Ever.”

The pit drops out of Carlos’s stomach. He swallows the heart that just threatened to leap right out of his throat. “Cecil…you don’t mean that.”

“I do. I won’t go back there. I can’t stand working for that…that _thing_.” Cecil rakes his fingers violently through his own hair, curling around himself until his chin practically hits his knees. “It _ate_ Jerry. He was just a kid. He had his whole life waiting for him and it _ate_ him.”

Carlos bites his tongue, sensing than an explanation of the difference between eating and corporal absorption won’t be helpful here. Cecil sniffles, his face a mess of tears with the muscles left slack from his drink. He takes off his glasses and mops up the mess with his sleeve.

“He distracted them for me.” The drink leaves his normally-soothing voice thick, clumsy, and dull. “Even though it was all my fault, Jerry still tried to keep them busy. He’s the only reason I got away. I couldn’t help him.”

Ah. Carlos nods in solemn understanding. The loss of potential talent and a good heart is always difficult for the people involved. “He was a very good intern.”

Cecil chokes on a laugh that’s half-manic and half-disgusted. “Oh, _of course_. That makes it all okay. He was a _good intern_. Just like Adele and Davey and Chad and all the other _good interns_ I’ve sent to their deaths.”

He flails his hands, rattling the glasses so violently that the lenses threaten to burst from the frames. Carlos makes a grab for them, only for Cecil to snatch his hand back and shove them back over his eyes.

“But what does it matter, right? Station Management just has to hire more. Just one more batch of innocent teenagers, rounded up and sent to the slaughter in the name of _journalistic integrity_. And when those die too, they’ll just hire more and more and more.” He locks his jaw, biting down so hard that Carlos fears for the safety of his teeth. “I’ve put up with a lot in this town, _for_ this town. But I can’t keep watching these kids die for no reason. Not because of me, and not because of _that thing_.”

He shuts down after that, apparently exhausted by the sudden release of built-up tensions. Carlos keeps quiet, letting the host decompress, but nudges the bottle out of his reach when he reaches for another glass. The scientist places the lid back on the booze and sets it aside with a sigh.

“It’s not for no reason. There is a reason. A good one.”

Cecil stares at him, unblinking and unmotivated. His shirt slides off one shoulder and exposes a sharp collarbone. Carlos averts his eye, grasping fragments of the rant at random to present his case.

“Even in Night Vale, the radio station is unique. In a lot of ways, it’s more like an organism than a location. Every aspect that goes into its existence – Station Management, the interns, those shows that go on when nobody’s around to broadcast, all of it – is part of this vastly complicated support system designed to bolster and secure itself, and in doing so it…”

He trails off, noting the host’s unfocused gaze and slack jaw. He sighs. “You’re not getting any of this. You’re too drunk.”

Cecil shake his head and works his jaw as though to protest, but no sound comes out. That last drink must be hitting his bloodstream. Carlos groans. The whole situation would be tricky enough to explain to a sober person. Breaking it down for a drunk will be impossible.

“The bottom line is, you’re not actually working for Station Management. You work under them, sure, but in a more practical sense you’re working for the people of Night Vale. Like you say, it’s _our_ community news station.” Carlos grins and hopes that it doesn’t betray his screaming nerves. “That’s really important around here. That’s why we need a good host to lead the way.”

Cecil mulls this over, watching a trickle of green ectoplasm leak down the opposite wall. After a long consideration, he licks his lips and reaches again for an empty glass. “You’ve had other hosts before,” he croaks. “Management’ll find someone new. Someone better.”

“No!”

Cecil jerks, dropping his glass. Carlos didn’t mean to shout, but he’s desperate. He _has_ to make Cecil understand.

“There is no one better, and they won’t find anyone else. It has to be you.” He sinks to the floor to gather the fallen glass and stays kneeling so he can look up, holding Cecil’s full attention. “I could try to explain it but I don’t think you’ll understand until you’ve sobered up. So for now you’ll just have to believe me. You’re the only one who can do this job, and it’s vital to Night Vale. We need you, Cecil. Not anyone else. Just you.”

Cecil bites his lip. He takes a few shuddering breaths as though about to start crying again, though the tears never reappear. When he finds his voice again, it’s soft, but steadier than before.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. “Don’t talk like you think I’m something important.”

He reaches for the glass. Carlos holds tight and refuses to give it up. “You _are_ important. It’s a scientific fact.” He tugs the high-baller out of Cecil’s reach and places it back on the coffee table before standing and grasping the radio host by the wrists. “I think you’ve had enough to drink. Let’s get you to bed, so can start sleeping this off. Okay?”

Cecil nods dumbly and allows the scientist to pull him to his feet. Carlos slips one long arm over his shoulders and wraps his own around Cecil’s waist. The journalist sways so badly that it takes a while to find their balance. Once they’re steady, Carlos clears a path with his shoe and starts shuffling for the bedroom.

They’ve barely made it to the hall when Carlos feels fingers massaging his scalp. Cecil now wears a wide grin, his head lolling for a better look as he combs fingers through Carlos’s locks. “You have such beautiful hair,” he sighs, previous sorrows forgotten like he’s wandered into heaven. “It’s so soft. So dark. So _perfect_.”

Carlos chuckles. He can use many words to describe his hair, but ‘perfect’ is not one of them. “I’ve been thinking of getting it cut.”

Cecil gasps and sends them both stumbling into the wall. He looks utterly scandalized. “Don’t you dare! It’s perfect just the way it is.” Oblivious to the fact that he’s about to fall, he fans his fingers through the dark curls and sighs as though admiring fine art. “Only a monster would dare harm something so lovely. Not that there’s a shortage of _those_ around.”

Carlos winces. He’ll have to speak with the station’s HR department about offering sensitivity training. He drags the drunk host away from the wall and continues their shuffling. Through the half-open bathroom door, they hear a loud screech, like nails on a chalkboard, closely followed by the gurgle of a toilet snake slipping from the tank into the bowl.

Cecil frowns at the door as they stumble past. “My mother would have loved this town. All her wildest dreams come true. Or…I don’t know.” He shakes his head and seems to regret the action instantly, closing his eyes with a pained expression. “Perhaps not. All her dreams seemed to be nightmares.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman,” says Carlos, nudging open the bedroom door.

“She was crazy,” Cecil snaps. “Crazy and broken and sick.” The anger in his face lasts only a second before crumbling into gloom and, soon after, desperation. “I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re not,” says Carlos. “You’re just drunk.”

They finally reach the bed, which looks like it might have been made when Cecil began his bender but has now been reduced to just the bottom sheet and some pillows. The other blankets lie scattered in various locations all over the floor. Carlos eases Cecil onto the mattress, but doesn’t let him lie down, instead propping him so that he sits up with his feet on the floor.

“There we go. Hold tight, okay? I’ll get you some water and something to help with the hangover.”

Cecil nods and continues to do so as the scientist ducks out of the room. Carlos retrieves an empty glass from the coffee table and heads the bathroom in search of vitamin supplements. To his surprise, he finds that the mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet has been completely covered with duct tape. A fresh-looking diagonal gash mars its center, apparently torn through by a single claw.

Still, the joint to the cabinet beyond works just fine. Finding no vitamins, Carlos settles for cold water and heads back to the bedroom. There, Cecil lies flat on the bed with arms spread and eyes closed, his glasses hanging askew. He makes a strange noise with each breath, something half-way between a squeak and a snore.

Carlos sighs, sets the water on the bedside table, and shakes the journalist by his shoulder. “Cecil. Cecil, wake up. You can sleep in a minute, but first you need to drink this. Otherwise, you’ll regret it in the morn—”

Without warning, Cecil wraps both his arms around Carlos’s neck and drags the scientist down onto the bed. Carlos catches himself before he can face-plant into the mattress, only to find that he’s trapped, sprawled on top of a very drunk radio host with his feet flailing off the ground.

Cecil holds tight, nuzzling happily into the place where Carlos’s jaw connects to his neck. His warm breath ghosts over the shell of Carlos’s ear.

“I love you.”

Carlos nearly swallows his tongue.

Cecil notices nothing. He cards his fingers through Carlos’s hair and breathes deep, apparently content to stay like this for the rest of the night. Heart pounding, Carlos pulls himself together. He plants his hands on either side of Cecil’s head and pushes away.

“Cecil. You’re drunk.”

“But it’s _true_.” Cecil holds on despite the new distance between them, his fingers laced behind Carlos’s neck. The only word for his expression is _adoration_. “I’ve loved you ever since we met. You’re so smart and so handsome and you love this place so much.” He loosens one hand to caress Carlos’s cheek, tracing faint stubble with the pad of his thumb. “Your eyes light up when you talk about it and you get so excited and it’s beautiful. My perfect, beautiful Carlos.”

Carlos gulps, heart lodged in his throat. He knows he should pull away but he can’t get his arms to move. No one has ever talked about him like this, not ever. This can’t be happening.

“I wish I could see what’s beautiful about this town. Like you do.” Cecil’s adoration doesn’t fade, but his smile does and the hand on Carlos’s cheek grows distant. “But it’s so hard. And I know…” His voice cracks. “I know you’d never want me. You deserve someone perfect. Not a stupid, broken, ugly –”

“ _Stop_.”

Carlos yanks away, shaking off Cecil’s hands. He grasps the wrists and pins them to the mattress, holding himself a few inches over Cecil’s face.

“Cecil Palmer, you are none of those things. Don’t you ever talk about yourself that way again.”

Cecil gapes. The smile returns shakily to his lips. Then his eyes shift out of focus and roll back. He passes out, the alcohol in his system finally too much to bear.

Carlos slides to the floor. He buries his face in his hands, taking a moment to get his pounding heart back under control. He has to be the dumbest double-PhD that ever lived. All those anxious glances, the stuttering, the nervous ticks…he’d seen them all, logged them, and jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.

But really, how was he supposed to guess? People don’t really fall in love at first sight. Not with him.

Once he no longer hears the heartbeat in his own ears, Carlos drags himself off the floor. He arranges Cecil more comfortably under the bed, checking the wound on his hand to see if the bandages need changing. They don’t. He covers the sleeping journalist with a quilt and leaves the water on the bed-stand with a bottle of ibuprofen.

He cleans up the living room, putting the glasses in the sink and hiding the booze in a cabinet over the fridge that looks little-used. After feeding the remains of the broken tumbler to the toilet snake, he settles down at the breakfast table with a corn muffin and the reading light on his phone. He flips through the manila folder of his research, which represents almost two decades of study, in search of anything that might shed some light on the current situation.

He finds exactly what he expected, which is to say that he finds nothing. There is no precedent, not even hearsay or old legend, for a chosen Voice attempting to reject the position. If Cecil truly wants to leave Night Vale, then Carlos is in no position to stop him, but he also has no idea what might happen.

Maybe, if Cecil had another reason to stay…

Carlos shuts down that train of thought and hates himself for even considering it.

No. He’ll do exactly what he promised. He’ll stay the night and, once Cecil’s ready, show him everything he knows about the Voice and what his research has confirmed. And if, after all that, Cecil still wants to leave…

Well. They’ll adjust. Night Vale always does.


	6. The Morning After

When Cecil comes to the next morning it takes him a while to remember who he is, where he is, and what he’d been doing mere hours before. It all comes rushing back in the pounding pulse of a headache that threatens to shatter his skull from the inside despite his drawn curtains and darkened room.

He groans, curling into a fetal position with his arms wrapped tight around his skull. Though he’d like to roll over and die, his dry tongue and aching stomach threaten to multiply his misery ten-fold if he lingers too long.

The barest movement in the corner of his eye makes the decision for him. With a flick and a snap, his curtains fly open, dumping unbearably bright light into the room. Cecil flees, wrapped in a bed sheet and cursing in a pained hiss. Aged, vaguely feminine laughter follows him into the safety of the hall.

The rest of his apartment lies quiet and dark, all windows covered and all lights safely doused. It is empty, which is only to be expected. Still, disappoint floods Cecil’s tired heart. He’d had such a lovely dream of sweet Carlos, bringing him comfort with strong hands and soft words. He’d seemed so real.

But of course he is not. He wouldn’t be here. He is a dream and Cecil, as always, is alone.

Shaking off the thought, Cecil shuffles into the kitchen for a glass of water. He downs three despite the complaints of his empty stomach and is about to draw a fourth when the lock on his front door rattles open.

Cecil drops his glass, heart clenched in fear. Could it be Station Management? The Sheriff’s Secret Police? Would such monsters even need a door, let alone the key to open it?

He should hide, but by the time the thought crosses his mind it’s already too late. The door opens, flooding the kitchen and front hall with horrible, burning light.

“Cecil?” says the light in a voice like smooth caramel.

It couldn’t be.

Cringing, Cecil squints at the open door. There, in all his glory and with pizza box in hand, stands Carlos.

That’s all Cecil manages to register before the hangover hits him in the gut. He bolts for the bathroom, praying he can make it before the most embarrassing day of his life gets even worse.

* * *

 

The next hour finds Cecil in clean clothes, huddled on the couch with an old quilt and his second slice of “Big Rico’s Patented Hangover Cure.” Carlos sits across from him, armchair creaking as he fidgets in search of something to do with his hands. A long, tense silence hangs between them like a weighted noose.

It’s hell. Cecil stares at the floor while he chews, wishing that he could crawl under its worn floorboards and die of embarrassment. Carlos has promised to explain something to him, something important about him and the town, but all Cecil can think is that he’s spoiled the one good thing he had going for him by being a drunken, rambling idiot. It’s be more merciful to run him out of town and let him put this whole nightmare of a failed life behind him, but Carlos is not so cruel and the fates are not so kind.

He feels Carlos watching him as he finishes the pizza slice and chases it with half a glass of water. When he finally looks up, the scientist offers him a grin. “Feeling better?”

“Actually…yes.” Cecil wipes his lip on the back of his hand. He’s still miserable, but the physical symptoms of his hangover are long gone. He tries not to think too hard about the meal that brought him such relief. It’s no good looking a gift horse in the mouth, even if that horse comes topped with bacon, raw egg, and dog hair.

“Good. I thought that might help. It’s scientifically proven to be effective.” Carlos nods like he just said something profound, then goes back to fidgeting. His fingers twitch like he’s trying to run calculations in his head and they aren’t going well. “So…”

“…so?” prompts Cecil with a slight wince. He fears what Carlos has to say, but it’s better to get it over with than to wallow miserably for the rest of the day.

“Last night. The reason I came over is, well. There’s something important that I need to tell you. I mean, it’s about time. The thing is…” Carlos stops. His perfect brows furl and his hands clench together to stop fidgeting. “The thing is. Night Vale.”

“What about it?”

“It’s _weird_.”

Cecil stares. He snorts. Before he can stop himself, he dissolves into laughter that shakes his body to the core. His overtaxed muscles moan in protest and his joints ache from the strain. He wraps his arms around his stomach and laughs so hard his eyes begin to tear.

Carlos sits by, his face stuck in an uncertain smile as his eyes blink rapidly. “What’s so funny?”

Cecil practically chokes before he gets back enough air to answer. “Is that your _scientific_ opinion? Night Vale is ‘weird’?” He finally brings himself under control, sitting up and wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’m no _scientist_ , but even I could have told you that!”

Carlos chuckles, his smile becoming less stuck and more real. The tension between them evaporates and they are both able to once again relax.

“When you put it like that, it does sound a bit obvious,” he says, ruffling that perfect hair. “But yes, that is the scientific term. Night Vale is weird. That’s what makes it so fascinating. There’s no other place like it, not in the U.S. or entire the world.”

And there it is again. Carlos’s beautiful, dark eyes light up like a starless night, so full of passion and pride. Cecil leans towards him, wanting to fall into their depths, but stops before he gets too close.

Carlos, lost in his thoughts, notices nothing. “My lab’s been around for – gosh, it must be _ages_ – and still we’ve barely scraped the surface of Night Vale’s mysteries. Still.” He shakes his head as though clearing water from his ears. “There are a few things we’ve uncovered that we can say for sure, and if there’s one that I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that the Voice of Night Vale is important.”

Cecil frowns. “The…what now?”

“The Voice of Night Vale,” says Carlos, as though the words mean something together that requires the use of capital letters. When he sees that Cecil’s not getting it, he gestures with one hand to indicate all of the journalist sitting before him. “You, Cecil. You’re the Voice.”

“I’m a community radio announcer.”

“Yes, exactly!” Carlos beams as though he’s finally Got It.

Cecil shakes his head. “Nobody even listens to radio anymore.”

Carlos laughs. Cecil scowls and balls up his quilt to throw it at the scientist’s head. “I’m serious, Carlos. There’s nothing important about a local news show that nobody even listens to.”

Carlos catches the quilt, only for the ball to burst and cover his head when he does. He emerges from under it no longer laughing, but still bearing a fond smile. “Cecil, _everyone_ listens to your show. The whole town.”

That brings Cecil up short. In his ten years as a journalist, he’s never had a larger audience than the few hundred who listened to his campus show in college. To catch the ear of an entire town…

“…is it mandated by the City Council?”

“Nope. Not at all. It’s just something that everyone does.” Carlos sobers a bit, folding the quilt to occupy his hands. “Listening to the Voice is important. Most residents don’t know that consciously, but it’s true. It’s a fact that all residents of Night Vale feel in their souls.”

He sets the quilt aside and retrieves the manila folder from the coffee table, where it’s been sitting alongside the pizza. He thumbs through the papers it contains before settling on a certain page and handing Cecil the file. “Here. Take a look at these.”

Cecil squints down at the page, which turns to be a print-out of some kind of three-dimensional graph. He lifts his glasses to give his nearsighted eyes a break and turns the page to find that graph to be the first in a series. They vary wildly, some as violent and random as radio static, others barely more disturbed than a newly-made bed. Each graph is accompanied by a paragraph of five-syllable nonsense words and a photo, most of which look suspiciously like those used for the radio station’s ID cards.

He gives the whole stack two passes before giving up and returning his glasses to their proper place. “What am I looking at here?”

“Data,” says Carlos, as if that explains everything. When it doesn’t, he backtracks. “The details are much too scientific to go into right now but, basically, these charts are a visual summation of the readings my lab gathered from all the people who’ve tried to do your job over the past few years.”

He takes the folder back from Cecil and unhooks the binder clip holding it all together. Separating the charts into individual stacks, he lays them out on the coffee table for Cecil to see.

“See this on? This is the last confirmed Voice, Leonard Burton.”

Leonard Burton’s face is one Cecil recognizes immediately from the unlabeled portrait that sometimes turns up on random studio walls. It’s hard to mistake those thick purple lips and lolling, swollen tongue.

“See how smooth and orderly the wave pattern is?”

Cecil does not. While Burton’s graph is certainly less chaotic than many of the others, it still resembles a choppy ocean rocked by an oncoming storm.

“This is what the Voice looks like when everything is in place,” says Carlos, placing Burton’s chart front-and-center among the spread of others. “Certain aspects of its nature resonate with other forces in town in a way that is metaphysical and almost impossible to explain, but is also definitely real.”

Cecil rubs his temple. A new headache threatens, one that has nothing to do with his drinking. “And what, exactly, does this ‘resonance’ do?”

“We, ah. We don’t know.” Carlos shrugs sheepishly. “That is, we don’t know _yet_. There are theories…” He trails off, apparently decides that elaborating on said theories won’t go anywhere, and changes his mind to get back on track. “In any case. Whatever function the Voice serves, it has to be important. That’s why people can feel it. That’s why it gets prophesied by the impossibly old stone tablets down at City Hall.”

Dread squirms in Cecil’s gut, the way it always does when talk of predictions and fate comes along. His understanding of the situation has been turned on its head, mixing science with something else entirely. He supposes that in town like this he shouldn’t be surprised.

“My name is on some rock at City Hall?”

“Well. No.” Carlos fidgets all over again. “Burton’s is the last on the list. According to the city historians, the stones are meant to change to predict important figures for the future of Night Vales. The name of the new Voice is meant to appear before their predecessor retires, so they can be properly trained, so no one expected Burton to die without a successor until he did. Now the whole system’s out of whack. Station Management and the City Council tried every local option they could, with no luck. So they started looking outside of town.”

Familiar words tickle at the back of Cecil’s mind. He peers at the charts with their many photos and mutters, “‘No suitable candidate has arisen locally,’” before shaking off the thought. “So that’s why you think I’m a match? Because I sound the most like this Leonard Burton?”

“That’s just it – you _don’t_.” Carlos perches eagerly on the edge of his seat, face bright with the exciting prospect of another scientific mystery. “You don’t sound anything like Leonard. His voice was high and always put your nerves on edge, not like yours at all. But that doesn’t matter. Look.”

He gestures with a sweep of his arm to indicate the many graphs.

“All these people tried to fill the position between Burton and you. We didn’t get readings on all of the applicants – the town sometimes reacts very quickly to get rid of a bad fit – but you can totally see how none of them even come close to matching Leonard’s resonance. And then there’s you.”

Carlos lays a final chart directly alongside Leonard Burton’s. Cecil’s world lurches the way it always does when he catches sight of his own face. He has to remind himself that it’s a picture, not a mirror, before he can look at the data.

The waves of his graph are higher than Burton’s. They have less of a sharp crest and more of a smooth rolling from one into the other. But still, the similarity is obvious.

“You see?” says Carlos. “You’re the only one that even comes close.”

Cecil chews his bottom lip. “It’s not a perfect match.”

“Well, no, but that could just a natural variation, the thing that makes you different from him. Or it could be because you didn’t get trained the way he did, so it’ll evolve to be more similar as time goes on.”

“Or it could mean that there’s another candidate out there. Someone better.”

Carlos crosses his arms with a huff. “That’s statistically improbable. It doesn’t hold up to science.”

Cecil sighs. Cling to some bit of order, he collects the graphs into a stack and sets them aside, covering his portrait with that of Leonard Burton. “I don’t know, Carlos. I trust that you know what you’re doing with this science, but…” The fear and guilt that drove him to drink still gnaws at him like maggots in the brain. “What if your theory isn’t right? What I’m not supposed to be the Voice? What if I’m still a rotten match and that’s why my interns keep dying?”

“Cecil…”

Before the radio host can pull away, Carlos catches his hand. Cecil goes rigid, his every sense locked on those warm, strong fingers wrapped sympathetically around his own.

“Your interns, the danger they’re in – it’s not because of you.” Carlos keeps his gaze downcast but his thumb traces circles in Cecil’s palm. “It’s the radio station. It functions almost like an organism unto itself, one whose entire existence revolves around supporting and protecting the Voice. The Internship and all of its dangers are a part of that system. It keeps the Station going, which keeps the Voice alive.”

Cecil makes a pained noise. “By Voice, you mean me. So it is my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” Carlos tightens his grip, stilling Cecil’s trembling hand. “Those kids volunteer for the position. It’s their own choice. They know the risks and they believe it’s worth it, whether for their own reasons or for the sake of their community. And the fact is, more of them die when the Voice is unstable. You’ve only been here three months and the mortality has already gone down by fifty percent!

“Having you as the Voice makes things better. If I’m right, just having you here, doing the job every day, gives them a chance. You could be saving their lives.”

It makes a kind of sense. Cecil recalls the relief that overtook the intern team after his first broadcast. Jerry, Chad, Adele…they’d all been so happy to see him. Like they knew he belonged.

But he doesn’t. Cecil Palmer is nothing special and he has never really belonged anywhere. Least of all in Night Vale.

“I just don’t know,” he mutters again. He keeps his head bowed so he doesn’t have to watch the hope slip from Carlos’s face.

The scientist lingers, fishing for more but never coming up with the words. He gives Cecil’s hand a last squeeze and finally lets go.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” he says, though it sounds distant and hollow. The armchair creaks as he stands, returning the graphs to his file and collecting the half-full box of pizza. “Do you want another slice?”

Cecil shakes his head. “I couldn’t. You take it.”

“I’ll put it up for you. You might need a second dose later on.”

Cecil listens but doesn’t watch as Carlos enters the kitchen, opens the fridge, and sets the pizza box inside. He returns a moment later, but his footsteps hesitate rather than returning to the chair or gathering up his things.

“Say, Cecil? There’s, ah. Something else I wanted to ask you.”

Cecil glances up. He tries to wear an inviting smile. “What is it?”

Carlos takes a deep breath. He rubs his palms on his lab coat and claps his hands together before blurting, all at once, “Doyouwanttogooutfordinnersometime?”

If Cecil hadn’t been sitting down, he might have fallen to the ground in shock. “…what?”

“Dinner. You know.” Even when it’s awkward and uncertain, Carlos’s smile is absolutely perfect. “Like, food. Just the two of us. You and me, as like…a date.”

Cecil can’t be hearing this right. All his air vanishes in a breath and he forgets to inhale. He has to pinch himself very hard to prove that that this isn’t just more of his beautiful, drunken dream. “You would…with me? Really?”

“Well, yeah.” Carlos rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “You might have, ah, said a few things, last night? About me. So I figured…” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t hold you to things said under the influence. If you’re not interested –”

“No!” Cecil’s voice jumps two octaves in a panic. “I mean, _yes_. I mean.” He thumps his chest and clears his throat, forcing his lungs to breathe before he tries again. “Dinner. Yes. Dinner. With you. Dinner sounds–”

 _Don’t say neat. Don’t say neat_.

“–Wonderful.” Despite himself, Cecil melts into a warm joy. His face dissolves into a gooey, goofy smile and his body feels light. It’s almost like being drunk again, only better. So much better. “That would be wonderful, Carlos. Truly.”

“Great!” says Carlos, and breaks into a brilliant, shining grin. It’s the most perfect thing that Cecil has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. At the end of last chapter, I was totally set in the idea that Carlos would never lead Cecil on. Then, out of nowhere, the entirety of the next chapter (Chapter 7) walked into my mind and completely derailed all the plans I'd made until I couldn't remember my original plot anymore. And that's why this chapter took so long to work out. Whoo.


	7. First Date

“You asked him out?!”

Carlos grins sheepishly, sinking down in his squeaking office chair. His fellow scientists have him pinned against his lab station, staring down at him with varying expressions of shock and horror, save for Janine the Grad Student, who looks thrilled.

“You said you were going over for research!” moans Rochelle. “He’s a _subject._ And the _Voice_! What you thinking?”

“I…wasn’t.”

The entire group groans.

“I panicked!

Dave drags a frustrated hand down his face. “For fuck’s sake…”

“I had to do something.” Carlos sits up, adjusting his lab coat and trying to assert his authority as team leader. “You guys weren’t there, you didn’t see the condition he was in. Cecil was going to _leave_.”

The scientists glance to one another, doing that thing that groups do where they talk about one member without actually talking about them.

Carlos presses on. “We don’t have any data for a rejection scenario. Who knows what could happen? Cecil is the best match we’ve seen in years. We need him to stay. Night Vale needs him to stay.”

Dave snorts, rolling his eyes. “Sure man,” he says. “That totally justifies you whoring yourself out to prove a theory.”

“It’s not like that!” Carlos shoots to his feet. The chair clatters to the floor behind him, disturbing a terrarium of mysterious orange goo, which hisses and spits purple liquid at the glass. “Just, listen. Cecil isn’t adverse to Night Vale, not really. He’s unsettled, that’s all. He needs some help with the transition. We all know how hard that can be for new residents.”

“You mean for interlopers.”

Carlos glares Asim down. “New. Residents.” Cecil may be an outsider, but Night Vale can’t afford to keep thinking of him like he doesn’t belong.

Carlos clears his throat. He has here a team of talented, capable scientists. His friends. If he can just explain his plans properly, then they’ll understand.

“He’s infatuated with me. The degree of affection is statistically significant. If we play our cards right, we can transfer at least some of that positive attention from me to the rest of the town. After the initial fascination fades, we’ll break it off as friends, and he’ll still have a million reasons to stay. Night Vale gets its Voice, Cecil gets a local support system, it works out for everyone.”

Most of the team has now moved from horror to vague discomfort. Rochelle bites down on a knuckle. “If you say so…”

“I think it’s _brilliant,_ ” gushes Janine. She’s got her hands clasped and is practically squealing. “This could be so good for you, Carlos! It’s been so long since you last had a date.”

“Yeah, and there’s a reason for that,” grumbles Dave, still looking like he got a probe stuck in a very uncomfortable place. He hasn’t taken his disapproving glare off Carlos even once. “C’mon man. You really think you can pull this off? I mean – _you_?”

Carlos bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your last relationship lasted three days.”

Carlos cringes at the memory. It’s been three years and he still can’t set foot in Dark Owl Records without being howled out by the entire staff. “We figured out that we were incompatible. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“The one before _that_ was even shorter.”

“Now that wasn’t my fault…”

“You _forgot your prom date_.”

“Okay!” Carlos throws up a hand, stopping his old friend before he can go too far. “Okay. So I don’t have the best track record. But that’s all in the past. It doesn’t mean anything, not really.” He smiles, trying to be reassuring despite the fear that’s suddenly taken hold. “You know what they say – ‘Past performance is not a predictor of future results.’”

The affirmation, though familiar, goes over like a lead balloon, because of course they are all scientists and making predictions based on the observation of previous data points is fifty percent of their job.

Carlos rubs the back of his neck. “Well…nothing’s impossible forever. Right?”

His team exchanges a solemn look. 

* * *

Cecil office hasn’t changed much since the Incident. Actually, it hasn’t changed at all. Nothing about the Station reflects the rampage that came before, not even the ancient stone door behind which Management has resumed lurking. It should bother Cecil, and on his first day back it had, but only for the first hour. After that, all his fears and trepidations were lost to excitement and anticipation as he counts down the days.

He’s found Carlos on Facebook. He hadn’t looked the scientist up before because it felt a bit stalker-ish, but now they have a _date_. A date _tomorrow._ It’s only natural to google a potential partner before you commit to spending an entire evening alone with them.

Not that Cecil expects to find anything bad. Carlos’s page has seen little use, most likely started for him by someone who wanted to tag him in pictures. And tag they have, mostly candid shots from his lab or events around town, each more perfect than the last. Cecil scrolls through them all, his heart a flutter over ruffled hair and artfully tussled lab coats. During the broadcasts these last three days, it’d been all he could do not to gush his excitement all over the airwaves. He has to be the luckiest man who ever –

“Mr. Palmer?”

Cecil jerks from his thoughts, his cell phone giving a cat-like screech as he frantically shuts off the Facebook app. A young woman stands beside him, wearing an intern name tag and a warm smile. She carries his favorite mug, cradling its polished ceramic in her soft, dark hands.  

 “I brought your coffee.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Cheeks burning, Cecil accepts the steaming drink and lowers it to his desk with both hands. “Thank you, ah –” He stares at her face a moment, but despite his best efforts his mind can’t quite locate a name. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t learned your name.”

The woman’s smile never wavers. If anything it grows warmer, adding soft crinkles to the corners of her eyes. “Dana, sir. I’m Dana.”

“Dana.” Cecil repeats the name in his mind a few times, committing it to memory. After what Carlos told him, he’s grown weary of becoming too attached to his interns, but he will at least pay them the respect of remembering their names. “Thank you, Dana. It’s good to meet you.”

He blows on the fresh coffee and turns back to the script he’s meant to be finalizing for tomorrow’s show. Dana accepts his thanks with a quick, “No problem,” and he expects that she’ll slip back out to go help the other interns prep the equipment for tonight.

Only she doesn’t. She pauses at the door and hovers silently before saying, “Sir?”

Cecil looks up. Dana bites her lip, toying with the laminated Intern nametag at the end of her lanyard. “If you don’t mind my asking…are you all right? I heard about what happened last week and, well. You seem distractedly lately.”

Distracted. That’s a good way to put it. Cecil chuckles ruefully. “Am I that obvious?”

She nods, which draws another laugh. Cecil appreciates honesty, especially in a town like this.

“I’m fine. It’s not anything bad, really. I’m just excited.”

Dana folds her arms behind her back and watches him patiently. Cecil fiddles with his cellphone, sliding it around the desk until he can’t take the silence anymore and his excitement boils over.

“I have a date. Tomorrow night.” He _squeals_. It’s completely unprofessional, but when Dana’s eyes light up to mirror his joy Cecil can’t hold himself back. “It’s been a long, long time and they— _He_ is just so perfect. I never dreamed I’d have a chance with someone like that. You know?”

“Of course.”

Cecil beams at her. His pent-up anticipation burns into raw energy, leaving him giddy and flailing his hands even as he clears his throat and smooths the papers on his desk. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week. The anticipation is killing me, it makes it so hard to stay professional. God, during the show, it was all I could do not to start gushing about it…”

“You should.”

Cecil’s jaw clicks shut. Dana straightens, deliberately setting her shoulders in a way that immediately commands attention. “I think should you should talk about it during the show.”

“Oh, no,” says Cecil. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“Why not?”

“Because this is a community news show. It’s no place to prattle on about my personal life. I can’t waste listeners’ time like that.”

“It wouldn’t be a waste at all.” The encouragement in Dana’s voice gives Cecil chills. “You’re our Voice, Mister Palmer. People want to hear more about you. They want to know who you really are.” She starts rocking, rolling heel to toe and back again with the dizzying excitement of a much younger girl. “This obviously makes you so happy. I bet it’d make everyone else’s day just hearing about it.”

Cecil ducks his head, cheeks reddening, but smiles up at her through his bangs. “You really think that?”

“I do.” She beams. It feels like a long time since anyone has offered Cecil that kind of unyielding support.

“Thank you, Dana,” he says for a third time, though this one is not about coffee. “I’ll take that into consideration…”

* * *

“…So remember, listeners: always keep an out for spare change on the sidewalks, but keep in mind that America is not known for using gold in most modern coinage. By the time you realize your mistake, the leprechauns will already be upon you.

“And that’s all for financial news. Our next story is…well, actually, it’s not a story at all. This slot had been set aside for a station editorial, and, well, I…

“I’m sorry, listeners. If I seem a bit distracted tonight, it’s only because I am. You see…Tonight, I have a _date_.”

Carlos starts, looking up from his very important, City Council-mandated experiment on an ordinary slice of whole-wheat toast. The radio on the windowsill buzzes away, seemingly alive with Cecil’s excitement.

He should have expected this. Leonard Burton talked about his wife off and on until she died, and before her he’d apparently discussed his various flings and relationships on a regular basis. It was just…Cecil seemed so private, in comparison. Carlos assumed he was still in the closet. Perhaps it’s a quirk of the office. He’ll have to adjust his notes.

“Now,” continues Cecil, sounding giddy as a schoolgirl. “Out of respect for the other party and their privacy, I won’t be mentioning their name on-air. But I will tell you, listeners, that they are absolutely _per_ —”

_Click._

Carlos tries to whirl around, but only gets a few inches before the back of his chair is seized by four hands and dragged forcibly from the lab station. “Hey!”

“Sorry, lover-boy,” says Asim, grinning as he and Dave haul Carlos across the lab. “No time for talk shows. You’ve got a date to prepare for.”

“And all night to hear that dulcet voice sing your praises,” adds Dave, with an audible roll of his eyes.                                      

“But…” Carlos drags his heels, but there’s no purchase on the waxed tile floor to stop them. They’ve got him pinned by the shoulders too, leaving him with no recourse but to flail his arms at retreating lab station. “But the waveform data!”

“You can miss one show. What’s important now is getting you ready.”

“He’s not even off the air yet. We’ve got hours.”

“Exactly. Only a few hours to coach _you_ into giving this guy the night of his life.” They’ve made it to the hall now. Dave punches the button for the freight elevator and pulls back his sleeve to check his smartwatch. He shakes his head. “It’s going to be a close call.”

Defeated, Carlos crosses his arms with a huff and pouts as the elevator doors rattle open. Dave and Asim roll him inside, punching the button for the second floor, where they keep the men’s dorms. He swears, as the door closes, that he hears the wheat toast hiss like a caged snake.

The moment they arrive, it’s clear that something is wrong.

“Why is my front door open?” Carlos demands.

“The girls are already inside.” Asim holds open the door and steers the chair into Carlos’s apartment. Seems they’re all determined to see this nonsense through to the end.

“How did you even get in my apartment?”

“Science,” they both answer at the same time. Carlos smells perchloric acid on the way through and decides that he doesn’t want to know.

They wheel him into his bedroom, where Janine and Rochelle are already digging through his closet and drawers.

“What do you think?” asks Janine, brandishing half a dozen coat hangers. “Formal lab coat, or semi-formal lab coat?”

“Business casual.”

“Ooooh, excellent choice! It’s _such_ a fetching color. It’ll bring out his eyes.”

It’s moments like these that make Carlos grateful for time being as weird as it is. The hours fly by while he’s prepped and combed, lectured and dressed. Next thing he knows, he’s behind the wheel of his hybrid coupe, sitting out front of Cecil’s apartment with the engine running and his best flannel shirt smelling faintly of vanilla cologne.

He hesitates for a bit before deciding that it must be better to pick Cecil up at the door, especially since everyone knows that walking up to a strange car after dark is a good way to get snatched by the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency. He fastens the parking break so the car won’t wander off and makes his way upstairs, hovering outside Cecil’s door for another minute until he works up the nerve to knock.

“Cecil?”

“Just a minute!” Comes the reply immediately, soon followed by a muffled thump. Carlos winces and leans his ear near the door in concern, picking up a muttered, “Oh dear oh dear oh…” before the locks come loose.

Cecil appears, mildly flushed, dressed in a long purple tunic covered in intricate embroidery of black and silver vines. His slacks are bedazzled, just at the hips and cuffs, but the white rhinestones were bright enough that they seem to shine in the pale light of the hall.

Cecil scuffs his boot shyly on the welcome mat and whispers. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Carlos breathes. His brain tells his eyes to stop staring, but the eyes don’t listen. “Wow. You look…”

“Is it too much?” Cecil pulls at the tail of his shirt and hunches his shoulders, scrambling backward several steps in a hasty retreat. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew shouldn’t have let her talk me into this. Wait here, and I’ll just go –”

“No, wait.” Carlos catches a thin wrist before the radio host can go too far. “You don’t have to do that. You look good. _Really_ good.” Gorgeous is the right word, but Carlos can’t say it. He swallows his nerves and gently tugs Cecil out into the hall. “It just startled me. I guess I’ve never seen you out of work clothes.”

Cecil rubs his neck, turning away until his cheek nestles shyly in the curve of his shoulder. “Dana – one of the new interns – helped me pick it out.”

Carlos perks up at the familiar name. “Dana Cardinal?”

“I guess. Do you know her?”

“I used to babysit her. She’s a bright kid. I think she’ll go far.” He remembers that he’s holding Cecil’s arm and lets go, taking a step back to give the radio host some space while he locks up his apartment. “Did Dana take you shopping?”

“No. I, uh, already had this in my closet.” Cecil locks the door, scruffs the grumbling welcome mat, and steps alongside Carlos as they make their way back downstairs. “My mother used to dress like this. She looked so ethereal, floating around the house. Beautiful, really. I always wanted…” He trails off, gaze falling to his feet. “I suppose that’s a bit strange.”

“Strange?” asks Carlos, herding them towards his softly humming car.

Cecil shrugs. “A grown man dressing like his mother? It’s not very respectable.”

“To hell with respectable.” The words burst out of Carlos before he has a chance to think. As they reach the car, he catches Cecil and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “You look amazing. Trust me. I’m a scientist.”

It’s a stupid line, but the way Cecil smiles at him makes up for everything.

* * *

“So…” says Carlos, once they’ve settled into their booth at Gino’s. He fishes around for a conversation subject, having exhausted his repertoire of standard small talk on the drive over. “Tell me about your mother.”

Cecil chuckles, running a thin fingertip around the rim of his water glass. “Don’t tell me. Is psychiatry one of your scientific disciplines?”

 “Not like that.” Carlos blushes, fidgeting with his napkin. “It’s just, you’ve mentioned her twice now. She’s obviously important to you. Was it just you two, growing up?”

“Not at all. I had a brother. A stepfather, too...”  “When did I mentioned her before tonight?”

“Uh…” Alarm bells go off in Carlos’s head. Cecil catches his deer-in-the-headlights expression and lets the smile slip off his face.

“Don’t tell me.”

His words say one thing, but his tone says another. Carlos offers an apologetic shrug. “It was during your black-out.”

Cecil groans, covering his eyes with one hand. He stays like that as the waiter comes by to drop off their bread and drinks. Once they’re alone again, he mumbles, “What did I say?”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Carlos winces. If that’s what Cecil wants… “You called her crazy. And…broken.”

Cecil groans again. He returns his glasses in their proper place and glowers at the empty table to their right. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

“It doesn’t matter if I meant it, it shouldn’t have even crossed my mind.”

Cecil sighs, plucking a roll from the basket. He’s too distracted to notice that all of the soft, buttered lumps are squirming like kittens in a pile. Carlos decides not to point it out, especially as Cecil begins picking his into a pile of fluffy pieces rather than eating it right away.

“My mother was a beautiful woman, inside and out. She was an artist and a scholar. She liked music and jewelry and fortune telling. She was a wonderful painter – we had pictures all over the house, mostly of the sky.

“She was also a paranoid schizophrenic.”

With a final tear, Cecil reached the end of his roll. The pile shudders like recently-disturbed leaves. Cecil watches it warily, but says nothing before retrieving a pat of butter and mixing it in with his fork.

“It set in young. She took medication most of her adult life. The only time she went off the pills was during her pregnancies.” Now that the butter has calmed the beast, he finally takes the first bite. “With my brother, it went well. She went off the pills, gave birth, went back on, no problems. But with me, it was different.”

The fork lingers in his mouth. Staring at the table, Cecil bites its metal prongs. “I broke her.”

“Cecil.” It hurts to hear him. Carlos gulps his wriggling bread and reaches across the table. “That’s not…”

Cecil pulls his hand away before Carlos can take it. His tight expression betrays nothing.

Carlos hesitates, scientific reassurances dying on his tongue. His hand hovers, uncertain fingers brushing the puce-green cloth.

After a moment, Cecil’s hand creeps back into his. Long fingers entwine with Carlos’s own.

“It took me a long time to stop believing that,” says Cecil, squeezing Carlos’s hand to reassure and be reassured in turn. “I don’t remember what she was like before. I’ve just heard, one way or another, that she was never same.”

With perfect timing (no doubt honed by the psychic intuition required of all high-class wait-staff), their server reappears, to refresh the water glasses and non-too-subtly hint that one of them might consider purchasing a glass of wine to take the edge off. Cecil quickly retracts his hand as the man arrives and doesn’t respond to the offer. Carlos politely rejects the list in stumbling yet formal Modified Sumerian.

As the waiter, Cecil eyes his back as though trying to figure out where in the shadows he disappears to, as if it’s actually anywhere other than the shadows themselves.  He soon gives up the effort and weaves the long fingers together, using them to prop up his chin and pinning Carlos with unsettling adoration. “Anyway…enough about me. I want to hear about you, Carlos.”

“Oh. Ah.” Carlos rubs his neck, smearing butter across the collar of his nice shirt. “I’m not all that interesting.”

“You couldn’t be anything less than _fascinating_.” Cecil bats his eyelashes. Carlos has to admit, they’re very pretty eyes. Big, bright, attentive… “Tell me about your family. Are your parents scientists as well?”

“They were.” Cecil’s expression slips, so Carlos hurries on. People outside of Night Vale can be bit more sensitive about death, or so he’s heard. “Mama came into town with Doctor Dross.”

Cecil quirks his head. “Who?”

“Doctor Ada Drosselmeyer. The woman who founded my lab.” “Dad was born here. He taught Approved Science at the Community College. When they got married, he retired and joined the research team. I basically grew up in that lab…”

_Blip._

In a blink, the world shifts. One moment, Carlos is mid-sentence; the next, he finds himself in mid-step. He nearly trips, only staying upright because Cecil gives a startled yelp and catches his sleeve with both hands.

“A-Are you all right?”

“Fine!” With a stumbling step, Carlos manages to pull himself up-right despite his internal danger meter of survival instincts sounding off like klaxons during a storm. “I’m fine. Whew. I am…okay!”

Cecil sighs in relief, but doesn’t release his arm. His hands linger on Carlos’s coat as they take in their surroundings. Moonlight, street lamps, broken sidewalk, trees…There’s a wide open space among the trees, offering a glimpse of a twisting… _thing_ …and a parking lot up the hill, where Carlos can just make out the shape of his car. They’re in Mission Grove Park. That’s good to know.

“What just happened?” asks Cecil, long fingers curled not unattractively into Carlos’s sleeve.

Carlos smiles in an attempt to be reassuring. “Localized time skip. They get especially active around this time of year. Remember? You ran a PSA about them last night.”

“Oh…I suppose I did.” With a sheepish laugh, Cecil retracts his hands. “I never know how much of those to take seriously.”

Carlos catches the words, _‘All of them,’_ before the can slip out. He doesn’t want to embarrass Cecil, nor tell him how to do his job.

“Don’t worry,” he says instead. “It’s not like the time’s gone, just abridged. The memories almost always catch up sooner or later.”

“I see,” mutters Cecil, though from the tone of his voice he doesn’t ‘see’ at all. He ducks his head and scuffs his nice shoes against the cement. “So….”

“So.” Carlos forces a chuckle. It just makes things all the more awkward.

“It looks like we were taking a walk.”

“Sure does.” The familiar, winding path sparks an exciting thought in Carlos’s mind. “You know, I’ve got some long-term monitoring equipment set up in the trees all along this path. As long as we’re here, we could collect the data and cross-check their analysis against –”

Too late, the bolded and all-caps repeated warning of his teammates bursts into his mind: **_NO SCIENCE_**. That, apparently, had been the key recurring value in his previous failed relationships. Carlos winced, thoughts stumbling in a desperate attempt to backtrack. Yet, to his surprise, Cecil doesn’t looks repelled or insulted. He looks… _delighted_.

“You want to do science on those trees? With me?”

“…Only if you want to.”

“I do!” Cecil clasps his hands, voice skewing just an octave short of a squeal. “I really do. That sounds wonderful. Let’s…” He hesitates. His eyes dart back down to Carlos’s arm again and his entire body seems to shake with the effort of self-control. He takes a deep breath, folds his arms deliberately behind him, and starts walking. “Let’s go.”

Carlos trails after him, moderately bewildered by the mixed signals he’s catching off his date. Carlos is bad at emotions. He knows this, it’s why he specialized in science, not psychology or sociology, and it’s why his lab-mates grilled him on basic emotional indicators before he came out here. He _thinks_ that Cecil is happy…but he’s also sad, or nervous, or uncertain. Or all of these things? He keeps biting his lip, and when Carlos comes up alongside he gazes longingly at the scientist’s hands before glancing nervously around, as though they were government agents about to be caught out in the open and…

A memory from college flickers in the back of his mind. Once again, he’s forgotten about how things often work Outside.

Several things fall into place one after another. Instead of going for the meter in his pocket, Carlos instead closes the distance between them and Cecil’s hand.

Cecil goes rigid, with shoulders locked and breath caught. His fingers curl into Carlos’s – he doesn’t want to let go – but his eyes dart to the dim shapes of their fellow park-goers. He bites his lip.

“Cecil. It’s okay.” Carlos offers a reassuring squeeze. “No one in Night Vale will judge us for this. Life here is too unpredictable to begrudge a neighbor’s happiness.”

“But…you…” Cecil worries his lip so heavily that, even in the dim moonlight, Carlos can see the beginnings of a bruise on the thin skin. “This is your town, Carlos. You’re so respected here, and I’m just…”

“I’m only a scientist.” This time, Carlos’s chuckle is soft and more honest. He’s never understood why some people make such a big deal out of him just doing his job. “ _You’re_ the Voice of Night Vale. If anything, it’s an honor for me to spend time with you.”

Cecil ducks his head again. If it weren’t so dim, Carlos imagines that he could see the blush creeping up his cheeks. His long fingers curl more tightly around Carlos’s own and his eyes dart one last time to the shadowed figures, gibbering and twitching in the trees. Then, the journalist casts his fears to the wind. He wraps his arms around Carlos’s like a clingy sweater and pillows his head on the scientist’s shoulder.

Heat creeps up Carlos’s face. He’s suddenly quite thankful for the dark.

Ever connected, they wander the winding, labyrinthine paths of Mission Grove Park. Carlos feels more at home than he has all night even though he has to carry his data meter in the wrong hand. The numbers it gives him are inconclusive, which just so _exciting_ that he can’t stop from talking about it, even as one of the trees cuffs him up the side of the head. Before he knows it, he’s lost another hour and not because of time skips.  

He’s completely absorbed in examining a particularly interesting specimen when Cecil – who’d been quiet the entire time – frees one of his hands to stroke the scientist’s cheek. The brush of skin against skin sends cool electric sparks down Carlos’s spine.

“Do you always do all this work on your own?”

Carlos has to hold very still to keep up the weak wireless connection between implant and meter, so he glances towards his date moving only his eyes. Cecil lingers ever closer, watching Carlos as though he were the most interesting thing in the world.

“It all seems so complicated, this running around and setting up equipment and taking data. I can’t imagine what it must be like to do all that alone.”                                                                                

“A scientist is self-reliant. That’s the first thing a scientist is.”

Cecil retracts his hand. His face softens into concern and a quiet, “Oh.”

“…but I don’t always work alone.” Carlos’s eyes go back to the meter. The reading is almost complete. “I have my team at the lab. We assist each other with our personal projects and collaborate on anything large-scale. Most of grew up around science or Night Vale or both, so we all understand each other.”

“Like a family.”

Carlos chuckles. Heaven knows that none of his team would ever say that but… “Yes, I suppose so.”

“That sounds nice.”

A wistful, lingering sadness. Carlos catches it easily. It makes him wonder how long Cecil has been without a family to call his own.

They talk only a little more that night, and not about anything important – just science and trees and the night. They finish their circuit; follow the almost-imperceptiable, unmarked path back to the parking lot; duck carefully around the Thing That No One Acknowledges or Speaks About, and return to Carlos’s car.

Soon enough, they’re back where they started, standing in the parking lot outside Cecil’s apartment. Carlos got out of the car only because he’d realized that their missing time had involved a sudden rainstorm, and he hadn’t wanted Cecil to lose his balance and mess up his nice clothes. Now they stand, not touching, the awkwardness of a completed date hanging in the air like hot soup.

“So,” he mutters. “This is me.”

“Sure is.” Carlos clears this throat. Obviously, he’s used up what little eloquence he possesses over the course of one night.

Cecil’s eyes drift awkwardly towards the softly-humming, florescent green door of his downstairs neighbor. “I suppose I should probably start pulling my notes together for tomorrow’s show. We probably weren’t the only ones caught up in that time skip.”

He says this so softly that Carlos can barely hear. Carlos opens his mouth to remind him about the Standard End-of-Date Report, then closes it again once the sad hint registers through his thick skull. His stomach drops. After all this, he still managed to spoil the evening.

But how? He thought it’d been going so well. Sure, he’d messed up with the science thing, but Cecil seemed happy enough and he’d followed all of his teammates’ other directions and…

Oh. That’s right. One more thing.

While Carlos has been thinking, Cecil turned away, now muttering goodbyes as he steps towards the stairs. Carlos catches his wrist before he can slip out of reach and tugs him back for a kiss.

As their lips brush, a horrible certainty seizes Carlos’s heart. He’s made the worst possible mistake. Cecil will feel his reluctance, sense his dishonesty, maybe even develop spontaneous telepathy that will fling all of Carlos’s secrets out into the open. He’ll learn everything, and then he’ll push Carlos away and bolt, out of this life and away from Night Vale forever…

A surprised squeak rolls over Carlos’s lips. It didn’t come from his mouth.

Cecil melts into him, warm and receptive and utterly trusting. It’s worse than realized betrayal. Carlos is the ultimate heel.

Maybe that’s why he keeps the kiss short, pulling away after just a few seconds. The moment is broken further when a deafening _shriek_ from the neighbor’s apartment makes them both jump, instinctively snatching their hands back to themselves. The sound dies the moment their feet leave the welcome mat.

Carlos catches a glimpse of Cecil, lips parted and eyes wide even as they scurry back in surprise. The scientist laughs off the awkward scare and shuffles backwards a few steps before managing a weak, “Well…Good night,” and darting to the safety of his hybrid coupe.

As he pulls from the parking lot, he catches a final glimpse of the host in his rearview mirror. Cecil lingers on the sidewalk, fingers against his lips as though to keep the kiss trapped in. He’s the picture of perfect delight, lost in his own little world. Carlos has never seen anyone look that happy.

He smiles to himself as the image fades away. He’s still a cad, a tool, and the absolute worst; but maybe…just maybe…this can all work out after all.


End file.
